


To Know and Be Known

by mustdefine



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustdefine/pseuds/mustdefine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ending of a cliche-ridden, faux-philosophical, alt-history series I am far too lazy to actually write.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Know and Be Known

The smells of death and black powder are heavy in the late afternoon air. The man drops under Aliya’s overhead cut and she brings her blade back to guard, scanning for more opponents. But the only movement in her vicinity is from friendlies. Aliya takes a moment to catch her breath and survey the scene.

Her people are cleaning up, methodically dispatching survivors. Russians are nothing if not practical. Easier to make sure they’re not followed. Ruthless, the Americans said at the start, but after two weeks of constant ambush and a few hours’ sleep per night (if they’re lucky), the mutters have at least become quieter. 

On the whole, there’s not much love lost between the Russians and their unlikely allies. Denis, David, Ksenia, and Aliya have held their squad together and kept them from the Americans’ throats out of sheer force of will, and their counterparts have done the same. All that’s nearly at an end with the seaport in sight.

Not before Raisman gets herself killed offering water to injured enemy combatants. That’s nothing but a recipe for disaster—and there: one apparently dead man is reaching for his knife. Raisman’s kneeling with her back to him, fiddling with her canteen’s cap.  _Goddamn these Americans and their soft hearts._  Aliya’s the only friendly near enough, but her revolver’s dry. She charges down the slope, sees the man roll to his knees and bring back the knife. “Raisman!” she yells. The American spots her attacker and throws herself to the side, and Aliya whips her sword down with all of her momentum behind it. A head bounces downhill.

“Thank you,” Raisman says in a thick voice. This is the third time Aliya’s saved her life.

Aliya brings her sword up and performs  _chiburi_. Maybe some of the blood droplets land on Raisman, maybe not. She doesn’t look. She sheathes the clean blade and takes a deep breath to settle herself, then turns.

And sees who Raisman was ministering to. It’s one of the Russian grunts, a boy too young to be here. His eyes stare sightlessly at the amber sky. The reprimand she’s formulated dries up.

“It was quick,” the American says. Tear tracks are evident on her dusty face.

Aliya drops to a knee. Russian HQ keeps sending these kids and Aliya keeps taking them because she has to have troops, but …  _fuck_. She passes her hand over the boy’s eyelids, takes his dog tags, and stands. “Thank you.”

Across the battlefield, Komova waves at them. “We’d better round everyone up,” Aliya says. They walk together, armor creaking in the silence. Aliya glances over at Raisman. There’s little grace to the woman’s swordwork, but she’s indefatigable and diplomatic. The American squad would have fallen apart if it weren’t for her. And as much as Aliya hates to admit it, the Russian squad couldn’t have gotten here without the Americans. 

“You going back home?” Aliya says.

Raisman’s voice is hard. “We’ll get our next assignment on the ship. Washington will have sent a telegram.”

“No rest, huh?”

“No.” Raisman’s hand tightens convulsively on her sword hilt, and Aliya thinks of the several Americans she’d seen fall earlier today. Women, mostly. The last of Raisman’s closest friends. “No, no rest for us.”

Aliya stops before they get to Komova, shakes hands with Raisman wordlessly, hopes the strength of her grip communicates her regrets. The American holds her gaze for a moment. “You ever get used to losing people?”

Aliya presses her lips together, lets her eyes do the talking. Raisman’s clasp tightens. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I didn’t know them. If I didn’t have to think about…” She doesn’t complete the sentence, but Aliya understands all too well:  _If I didn’t have to send my friends into almost certain death. If I could go back to taking orders instead of giving them._

“Someone has to know them,” Aliya says.

Raisman’s face is pinched with pain. “Someone,” she repeats. “And who will know us?”

After Raisman trudges off to her cohort, Aliya goes over to her young lieutenant. Komova reports, “Four wounded, nothing serious. Everyone else is ready to get the hell out of this sorry-ass country.”

“One dead,” Aliya says. The tags dangle from her hand. Komova takes them from her and closes her fist around them carefully. Muted concern shows in her green eyes. Aliya sighs—there’s nothing to say at this stage—and they turn to corral their men and women. The Americans take the lead and start marching. The Russians bring up the rear, muskets and revolvers at the ready just in case. Raisman glances back at Aliya once. The dust rises along the column as the road wears away beneath them.

*  * *

At the harbor, the officers make their goodbyes while the troops line up to board separate vessels. Aliya bids farewell to Horton, Orozco and Levya. One officer’s been hanging back. Aliya lets Raisman come to her. The American’s face is grim, but there’s a strange light in her eyes.

“I’m going with you,” she says.

Aliya just looks at her.

“We weren’t even supposed to be stationed here, and now my friends are dead and we’ll be sent on to guard barricades and convoys. Nothing will mean anything. You at least go where the fighting is. Take me with you.”

“I don’t take volunteers,” Aliya says. The height of irony. 

“Please.”

“Not a good idea.”

Raisman moves closer. “I will pledge my sword to you right here,” she says, and her hand moves to the mouth of her sheath. Aliya can picture it: Raisman kneeling in  _seiza_  before her, bowing over her sword in old-fashioned oath-making.  _Bushido_  playing out before an audience of hostile eyes.

She presses down on Raisman’s gauntleted hand. “No,” she says quietly. “Keep your honor.”

Raisman takes her double meaning. After a moment she nods in agreement. Aliya squeezes her hand once more. Everyone has their moments of doubt. She offers, “See you in South Africa, maybe. Hear things are heating up there.”

Raisman finds a smile somewhere. “Buy you dinner?”

“I’d like that,” Aliya says. They shake to seal the agreement. The ships bob on the tide behind them.

When they meet by chance in Jo’burg four months later, they fall into bed after a few too many drinks. Later, Aly kneels on the battered wooden floor.  _To know and be known,_  Aliya thinks.  _For a time, for a time._


End file.
